


told you so

by mariusgaaazzh



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Background rediscovery of the classical texts, Canon Compliant, Cicero is an Assassin, Claudia is the better sibling, Florence is problematic, M/M, Spanish Brotherhood really wants a cameo, background politics, except that the novelization can go excuse itself, general inability to articulate emotions, pinning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-18 12:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9385856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariusgaaazzh/pseuds/mariusgaaazzh
Summary: Machiavelli's life was always a direct path. And now it brought him face to face with one of greatest men of their time, who spent his youth killing for vengeance he did not enact, rebuilding a town he could not defend, and protecting a family condemned to oblivion. Naturally, Ezio did not think to brush up his Latin in the process.





	1. Year 1500, April

**Author's Note:**

> for satan, who spent a year of our friendship telling me that I need to play assassin's creed, and then sighed and got me the games - only to stoically feed me carbonara as I was having meltdowns over lorenzo de medici's perfect hair, and not once say 'i told you so'. with love and gratitude.

The months following the fall of Monteriggioni were not easy. The news of its sack caught up with Machiavelli on the following night, and he found himself a nominal head of the gutted Order, stuck in the ratty inn in the middle of nowhere Umbria, thinking. Fortunately, he thought fast. Pigeons flew ahead with instructions for his brothers to lay low, and to congregate in Roma. They were going to strike back, hard - the Spaniard won't live.

And then he had to drag Ezio Auditore's body out of a crimson puddle. And then Roma refused to follow any kind of logic, saturated with its own loyalties and ambitions. He struggled to bring the Brotherhood together: nobles, and thieves, and tradesmen – they all expected different things from him. And Mario’s authority was a hard one to follow. While Niccolò was admired for his intelligence and resolve, he was still _young_ , lacking the years of experience, connections, and affluence that the old soldier had. Machiavelli sent letters, set up negotiations, span a network of informants throughout the city – and had a clear vision of who the real enemy was. But he could use some good news - which would be Cesare Borgia's head severed on a plate, in his case.

“Here,” the purse bounced on the table with a distinct metallic cling, forcing Niccolò to look up from a depeche to the cardinal of Rouen, unfinished.

“What is this?” He frowned. Not only did Auditore move up on him in complete silence, but looked like he crawled through all seven rings of Hell at least twice. Machiavelli briefly considered the possibility of Ezio losing his step somewhere in the Trastevere, and the troublesome phantom now showing up to haunt his days. But the materiality of the catacombs’ distinct, decaying smell on the once-white robes assured him otherwise.

“The coin you gave me next to mausoleo d'Augusto.”

“When you were about to run off to fight the Borgia with nothing but a hidden blade.” Niccolò scoffed, folding his arms. “ _Prego_ , Ezio. Something had to make you listen.”

“You still haven’t said anything smart.” A sharp smile flashed from under the hood, and Machiavelli couldn’t help but smirk back.

“Spend it on women and wine, patch up the roof in the lazaret”, Ezio shrugged, pacing in front of him, “There’s more, and - I need your help.”

“The wolf worshipers are more than we thought,” he continued, as Machiavelli was at the rare loss of words. “After Therme de Traiano, I followed them through another layer and picked what seems to be the second key – and this.” Ezio produced a seemingly ancient, but remarkably preserved scroll from one of his pockets.

'You mean the fanatics harassing people around _il Foro_ are sitting on actual treasure…’ Not questioning what was involved in Ezio’s idea of _following through_ , Machiavelli accepted the papyrus, ran his eyes down a few rows of Latin cursive of age he had never handled before, and looked up in urgency he could not conceal, “ _Do you know what this is._ ”

“I wouldn’t trouble you otherwise.”

Auditore looked too much like a cat who got his cream. Machiavelli frowned, falling back down into his chair and hungrily parcing the words – _certamente_ , the handwriting a challenge, but the meaning was unquestionable.

“ _Il Bruto_ wrote this, Ezio.”

A few copies and quick lines sent through Italia and beyond, and another piece will fall into the emerging puzzle of antiquity. _Storia di Roma_ could be hurried into print… If he even could let the world know this exists.

“The famed assassin of the past, huh..” Auditore twisted the key in his hand, leaning over the table to peak into the text.

“A good assassin is the one unremembered.”

“Of course,” Ezio didn’t even listen, “Is that _nominativus_?”

“ _Accusativus_. I feel to my knees.” There was a creeping realization. “Ezio-“

“Does it say anything useful?”

“A cave, a conspiracy.” Machiavelli shook his head, “This can’t be the end of it... _Ezio_ -“ he looked up, “don’t tell me you skipped the Latin curriculum.”

“More or less.” Auditore gave him a wry smile. “Mother insisted on the full _humanitatis_ , but I was selective about it.”

“I see.”

Machiavelli rarely forgot things, and then was terrible at pretending he did. The Auditore were executed only a few months after he started learning his first declensions. And the people on the streets were shouting – _killer, killer_. And Francesco de’Pazzi’s corpse was still swinging before his eyes. After that, the story of a lone vigilante did not fit into Niccolò’s restless mind. Coupled with the rise of the Medici, violent deaths around Toscana went beyond the usual squabble for power every Florentine was born into – and then, it was all about asking the right questions.

By the time _l’ombra blanca_ made his first kills in Venezia, Machiavelli knew who the Assassins were. There were no doubts about joining the Order at a young age, nor dedicating himself to a service that had to remain in the shadows. His life was always a direct path. And now it brought him face to face with one of greatest men of their time, who spent his youth killing for vengeance he did not enact, rebuilding a town he could not defend, and protecting a family condemned to oblivion. Naturally, Ezio did not think to brush up his Latin in the process.

He wondered what Ezio thought a lot. But, infallibly, before the carefully worded question would drop from his lips, the other man was already off, _improvising_ \- which included, in most cases, muffled screams on the rooftops, an explosion, and some ridiculous form of crossdressing. So now, watching the key dance between Ezio’s fingers, Machiavelli asked without thinking.

“And now did you pass with your exam?”

“Oh.” Auditore smirked. “I slept with my _repetitore_.”

It took all his diplomatic experience to simply met the gaze of the sewer-crawling pestilence before him and _sigh_. Yet all the reprimand in his eyes went wasted, as Auditore already had his back to the table, nonchalantly pulling Niccolò’s throwing knife out of Europa’s map on the wall.

“What’s in Parigi?”

It was equally like Ezio to seduce his tutor for fun and profit, or to lie about it, avoiding actual answers. But be he damned, if the thought of a smile against his ear and suggestion of _il favore_ instead of _il Virgilio_ did not plant a thousand tiny hooks into his mind, and he would not spend restless hours picking them out one by one. Machiavelli blinked in annoyance.

“Terrible weather and overpriced wine.” He said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “My contact is leaving the court, and we’re effectively blind as Spagnia and Francia are at each other’s throats over the lands they now have the papal blessing to pillage. Unless you can rob _le re di Francia_ for me.”

“ _Nessun problema_.” Ezio nodded, and Machiavelli blinked again, staring at him.

“I wasn’t serious.”

“Just send the Venetians, Niccolò.”

“ _Vano_. They suspect a Florentine interest in everything that I do.”

“Are they wrong?” The tone was teasing, and Machiavelli rolled his eyes.

“The Signioria does not pay me enough for this.” Not that at this point he wouldn’t be happy to strangle the doge with his bare hands. “Get in touch with Antonio, and I will see if there are any other mentions of Bruto’s writings or the Lupine cult.”

“ _Va bene_.” Ezio agreed, “And what do we want with _sua Maestà_?”

“Copies of the chancellery papers, and everything that looks out of place.”

The assassin chuckled at the audacity, turning to leave.

“And take your-“ But Ezio’s hand fell on Machiavelli’s shoulder before he could finish, and the money pouch remained on the desk.


	2. Year 1500, October

The Tiber hideout grew by the day as the news continued to spread that _the Assassins were back in Roma_. Those seeking refuge found it, those pleading for help were heard. Banking families sent liaisons and quotas to accommodate the growing needs of the Brotherhood, newest schematics were passed from hand to hand, and even a few paintings - from young, promising artists - were carried in. They might have as well flown a banner, if Ezio haven’t burned down so many, and the island itself wouldn’t turn into a fortress that could rival Sant’Angelo.

Roma was not a city to be conquered, not because of its will or virtue, but simply because it refused to understand submission. Street merchants, doctors, painters, courtesans - life itself ran past the steel bars of Borgia grasp. And Ezio had a sense for it, as some knew exactly where the underground springs ran. He spent his waking time chasing down that flow: tailing whispers in the corner alleys, scaling the crumbling aqueducts, and lingering in the thieves’ safe houses in the _campagnia_. Gods knew what he did and how, but the roots of the resistance planted themselves firmly in different parts of the city, and _the future_ started to come together under Machiavelli’s gaze.

But now, his thoughts were wrapped around the tight pack of letters their Venetian brothers delivered from the French court, with four other figures paused around the table in equal concern. Great powers always kept a careful toll of each other’s defeats and victories, and the complex network of conflicts and alliances crisscrossed Europa like a web of scars. But now, the revelation that the most powerful state in Christendom heeds ear to Alexander VI not only as a Pope, but as a Templar, was unsettling to all.

“The French king speaks in power and coin,” said Machiavelli, whose diplomatic career routinely relied on explaining why Firenze doesn’t have any. “The Borgia broker in both.”

“So we really shouldn’t be that surprised,” came from the corner occupied by Ezio’s hooded figure.

“No,” Niccolò agreed, turning around to face him. “But I am surprised that our _colleghi_ in Spain are planning to get in the way of the treaty. And they are not the ones we can call favors with.” As their land sat firmly under the grasp of the Inquisition, Spania’s surviving Assassins executed precise and brutal killings, and, with the destruction of Granada still fresh in memories and lives, mistrusted anyone of the Catholic faith.

“You want the treaty signed.” Claudia interjected quietly, and La Volpe by her side gave him a precautious look.

“We can afford a war even less than Roderigo can.” Machiavelli’s gaze went around the room, reading the keen faces of his comrades. They could barely afford Roma.

“He’s not wrong.” Bartolomeo looked up from the map spread on the table. “If Spanish bastards will be fighting the French bastards, there is no promise they won’t fight us.”

“They are arguing over Neapoli with their armies still in Milano.” Claudia did not back down, “And you are ready to sacrifice people’s lives, Niccolò – for what?”

“For time.” Machiavelli said those words so many times they lost all taste and color. “We need the Spaniard to believe in his own security. We need Cesare in Roma.”

“If Aguilar wants the French ambassador dead, he’s dead.” Ezio interjected, ignoring his sister’s scolding look. “We can do nothing about it.”

“We just need to pull the negotiations out of Spania. There are enough ears to whisper in around Roma for Roderigo to feel a threat.”

An apprehensive silence breathed through the room, with Ezio looking over everyone’s heads and Claudia worrying her lip. “You propose we give that information up. And do nothing.”

“The blood of the Spanish will be on your hands, if something happens, Niccolò.” La Volpe nodded.

And Machiavelli bowed his head in acknowledgement.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t think you’re right”, Ezio said when only two of them remained in the room. Bartolomeo had to hurry home to his _carissima_ , and Claudia’s clear laughter could be heard as she and the head of the thieves’ guild descended into underground.

Niccolò stored that observation for later, weighing on his friend’s words, “I don’t have a better way.”

“None of us do.” Ezio nodded, corners of the mouth twisted into a frown. And Machiavelli suddenly noticed how tired he was. The weariness showed - in the slant of his shoulders, as he leaned against the wall watching him, in the silent intent of his eyes. “Do you have anything on the Genoan gunpowder shipments? I was planning to check the docks tonight.”

“Leave Roma in peace, Ezio.” Niccolò shook his head at the other’s stubbornness. “Even you won’t rebuild it in a day, and I have no interest in fishing your cold dead body out of the Tevere when you are our best chance at infiltrating the Vaticano.”

“And what would you have me do, pick up knitting?”

“No,” Machiavelli smirked at the image, and stepped to the bookshelf, picking a slightly worn tome from the line of his carefully organized bindings, “But you can start with this.”

The idea nested itself in his mind fairly early, as soon he saw the old copy of il Donato for sale in the bookshop, but he could not think of a way to present Auditore with a Latin grammar without it flying back in his head.

Ezio’s face twitched in a painful memory, as he turned the book around in his hands. “I remember this one”, he frowned. “Too well”.

“I thought we have clearly established that you do not – “, he took a strategic step back, speaking softly “And I need you to.”

“ _Per l'amor di Dio_ , Niccolò. What for?” But there was no violent intent in how Ezio was flipping through the pages of verbs with visible curiosity. Machiavelli smiled.

“If the Brotherhood is to grow, I cannot in clear consciousness release your Latin composition upon the world. Your sister took a fashion in developing a correspondence network in Hebrew, and we do have the hands to sort through Greek and Arabic coming from the East. But the letters you will receive from Navarre and Saxony will not be in _lingua volgare_.”

“I’m not illiterate.” Ezio shot him a reproachful look from above the pages, but did allow the point to rest. “But since when are we in business for books. What paid for it?”

“The coin you returned to me, wishing away my good graces.”

“Your good graces and the plague, _amico mio_.” Ezio grumbled, looking him in the eye.

Niccolò did sigh, considering the injustice of what he was doing, “This is the best way I can help you right now.”

“I would have preferred a _spadone_.”

Machiavelli snorted, “Just quote some Cicerone at the guards next time you start trouble. They’ll scatter in terror.”

“I’ll scatter your teeth.”

“If that’s the motivation you desire, you may try.”

Ezio sighed. “I don’t have a way out of this one, don’t I?”

Niccolò was already compiling a reading list. “You absolutely don’t”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aguilar <3
> 
> but actually ezio was around for the siege of grenada in 1492, and left an enormous mess after himself - so no wonder they're not talking.
> 
> and it is the 1500 treaty of granada that the roman assassins are trying to mess with


	3. Year 1501, July

“You realize you cannot expect anything from a woman just because you saved her life.”

Machiavelli was deadpan unimpressed, staying up most of the night to secure Caterina Sforza’s safe departure, and unwillingly witnessing the end to the uneasy silences and unreturned gazes that passed between the assassin and the contessa in the past few weeks. And now Ezio remained still, struck with bitterness in the middle of piazza di Spagnia, deaf to anything but the sound of hoofs waning in the morning’s weak light.

And while Niccolò did sympathize with allure of a _problematic_ fruit, he was at least willing to acknowledge the complications it brought along. Forlì was a heavy political player, and contained the spread papal influence in ways that one man with a blade could not. He had a lot of respect for the ways in which Caterina negotiated her position, and understood the necessity, if not the brutality, of the casualties they carried - from her husband’s bloated corpse to Ezio Auditore’s bruised heart.

But the latter he, unfortunately, cared about.

“And given that you threw her into a heap of hay in the process, I’m amazed you got that far,” he squeezed Ezio’s shoulder in support, receiving a sour look in return.

“ _Victoria agli Assassini_ ”, he sighed. “ _Niccolò_.”

“I know, I know…”, Machiavelli signaled the assassins watching over the piazza from the rooftops to fall back, and juggled a few possibilities in his mind, making a decision. “Walk with me. I have a contract waiting close to Sant'Eustachio. Something you’d like to see.”

“Mosca?” Ezio asked expectedly, cranking his tired neck. The news on the infiltration of il Cremlino left them waiting.

“Colonia.” Machiavelli drew them into one of the side streets, “Our increased involvement with the Empire stirred some suspicion. And the courier was keen enough to carry it for me from the gates of the University itself.”

“University?”

“Patience.” Machiavelli smirked, receiving a well-deserved eyeroll.

They stepped into the easy hum of early morning. The artisans were preparing their wares, busty housewives - driving the bargain for the freshest produces, and young souls - returning from the night of drinking under the heavy gaze of the guards. Ezio moved through the interlacing Roman life like a current, and some of earlier weariness left his face. There was an organic quality to how he turned every corner, pressed a _soldo_ into beggar’s hand, gave a gentle bow to the two passing matrons, and yelled at the one who nearly dumped a chamber pot on their heads. He wrote himself into the life of the city with the most elegant marginalia, and a _capolettera_ decorated in gold. Niccolò was glad to be by his side in times like this, as some of that radiance shone for him to, making him a part of life he was so keen to observe and dissect.

Machiavelli’s “contact” turned out to be a blacksmith’s apprentice on the corner of via de Nari and via Montenore. His youth deserved Ezio’s snort, and the cheerful voice rang through the storefront as soon as they stepped in.

“I expected you a few days back, _messere_. But it’s even better, we had it refitted and now-“the heap of blonde curls disappeared from sight, to produce a _spada da lato_ in a new leather sheath. The young man watched with interest, leaning over the counter on his elbows, as Machiavelli weighted the sword’s balance, and then turned it around in his wrist, testing the reach. “But I guess you were busy seeing the contessa off?”

Ezio was about to pin the little shit’s neck to the opposite wall, when suddenly there was a blade in his path.

“Alfredo, meet maestro Auditore,” Machiavelli said before Ezio could open his mouth, and watched the kid’s face light up like the sun.

“Messere, I… My mother is from Firenze. I heard so much about you. Two years ago, when we visited tio Giuseppe I tried to climb the Campanile. I made it nearly a third up. And then I landed right on a priest, so it was alright.. but.. they sent away to Trier, but I kept practicing. I made it over the Kolnische walls, even though they were shooting, and I thou-“The passionate outpouring was interrupted by the roll of German curses from the back, and Alfredo quickly grabbed a bucket and ran to the summon, throwing an apologetic glance at the two assassins.

 “Where do you find them?” Ezio chuckled, sizing the nimble figure up.

“They find us.” Machiavelli shrugged, sheathing his weapon and then hoisting it around his waist. “Give the boy a chance. Recruits don’t get better.”

“He needs to be more subtle.”

“As if you ever were.”

The truth lay heavy in the silence between them, and Niccolò smiled.

“Tevere Island. Tomorrow.” Ezio called, yielding, to hear a joyous yelp, a splash, and a clang of armor. He winced.

“Are we here because of your love for _todesco_ weaponry, or so I would _at least_ have an apprentice.”

“Both,” Niccolò admitted. “But neither – be patient.”

“Patient?”

“ _Grazie mille_.” Alfredo barged in like a little thunderbolt, wet from the chest down, breathless and _absolutely happy_. “It’s such an honor. It couldn’t hope-“

“Calm down, _il fulmine_.” Ezio looked at him with a kinder eye, “We’ll sort you out.”

“ _Thank you_.”

“Alfredo,” Machiavelli cleared his throat not to laugh, “The message.”

“ _Mie scuse,_ messere.” The young man produced a letter from one of his pockets – still dry, mercifully. “It was safe with me the entire way.”

 

* * *

 

“This is a good news.” Machiavelli clarified, as they finally stepped outside, escaping the outpouring of Alfredo’s adventures, and immediately took a left, away from the Borgia patrol. “The kind that tends to be dangerous to open in the middle of the street. And which only your eyes can see.”

“ _Niccolò_.”

“After the journal pages you kept bringing started making sense,” Machiavelli resigned, “I had to start looking on my part. There were too many similarities, which could not exist in isolation. I still cannot verify this with the _Le vite parallele_. There isn’t a single copy in Firenze, and it’s a long way from Venetian bookshops. But there is enough in what Sallustio emits-”

“And?”

“ _We’re getting there_.” Not far from teatro di Marcello, they barely got out of the way a rolling barrel and a man chasing after it with connoisseur Piedmontiese curses.

“Is it wrong that I love this city?” Ezio asked, suddenly even for himself. “It doesn’t know what to do with its freedom, and yet wants to keep every piece of it. A crumbling ruin that went through every vice and every master - trying to make sense of it is like walking on water.”

“You’re too self-critical.” Machiavelli raised an eyebrow and received a murderous glare from under the hood. “But no, it is not. Nowhere I have seen the spirit of the people crafting their own fate so strong.”

“I thought you mistrusted the people?” They finally passed Ponte Fabricio, greeted by a familiar flock of courtesans who were chatting up the neighborhood baker.

“I do”, he nodded, “But it doesn’t mean all we do is in vain. Roma proves that. Day to day, it withstood all of its Caesars, and it stands now.“

“It is still a ruin.” Ezio objected, having to kick the _ground floor_ door into the hideout for it to open properly. They need to take care of that.

“Gold once, now infested with thorn and wild with bushes?” Machiavelli chuckled, nearly dragging the other man in by the sleeve. “Please, Ezio. Only weak men need to tell themselves about the greatness of the past to justify their present. Now, come read the goddamn letter.”

They settled in the library, and Ezio broke the seal with his hidden blade.

Machiavelli quickly looked through the scholar’s illustrious greetings, wishes of good health to Holy Roman Emperor Maximillian and the Assassin Brotherhood, polite complaints about the dangerous nature of the work, and other rubbish – until he got to the attached manuscript _. Those with eyes shall see_ – was the only elegant line on the top, _yes_.

And then all he could do is watch Ezio’s face, as the other _blinked_ , and saw something that only those who converse with gods can. “ _Nihil verum est, omnia licet_ …” Auditore mouthed the first words, and looked up at him, “What..?”

“ _Read_.”

 _My brothers_ , Ezio started, in the voice that was not quite his,

_We swore to protect the Republic, must we not stand for it in its darkest hour? The false accusations and killings are spreading through it as the first stiffness in the body close to death. Those desiring only power and coin carry the foul smell of death with them – you will scent them in the crowds, bringing their punishment. The threat also coils like a serpent outside Rome, in Capua and Etruria. Its fangs, however, are right before you. Watch the houses of the Conscripted Fathers. Watch the lights across the Tevere.  Not with the sword, but with the law we shall fight. Gather the letters written by them, and before the Senate I shall unravel the depth of the conspiracy._

Niccolò could only laugh silently into his clasped hands, as the last syllables of Cicerone’s words rolled to their end. Of course, he was right, but _how_ right.

And then there was a hand on his, making him look up. Ezio seemed more unsettled by his reaction, rather than by the parchment he still held. “What does this mean. Niccolò?”

“That we are the future.” Machiavelli looked at the Prophet with luminous eyes, “The map with continents not yet discovered, the message Minerva left you. The tombs of our Order spread across Italia, this letter, the Borgia. We are a part of the current we cannot stir away from, yet do not understand. And this is not the original – there has to be more.”

“Isn’t it for the weak, to look back at the past?”

“No,” Niccolò leaned back, allowing the warm afternoon sun to fall on his face, “It is what carries us forward, if we allow it to.” He smiled in triumph. “ _Victoria agli Assassini_.”

And then, there was a moment of indecision. As if the universe paused between _happening_ and _not happening_ , and Niccolò was perfectly aware of it, balancing along on the ledge. Aware of how the world shrunk to the distance between them, and how careful Ezio’s eyes were.

Auditore took the time for his intent to be clear, the time for Niccolò to shrug it all off and start telling him about the Cataline wars, or - the midday sun was so bright it was the only thing clear, and he breathed out to meet another’s breath, and to feel it break, and a hand to settle on the back of his neck, pulling him in, and -

Ezio kissed him just as he always imagined it, measured and sure, just enough strong and just enough tender, drawing him in like a net. And it was all right here - down to how that scar would feel under his lips, and how much the stupid hood would get in the way, and how he would finally get his hands into the dark hair, and -

“No,”

Machiavelli pulled back, feeling like something tore all the air out of his lungs and floor from under his feet. “If this because Caterina left, I will kill you,” he promised, looking into Ezio’s wide open eyes.

“I don’t know,” his voice ran deep like a river, and Niccolò heard all the bells of San Pietro ring in his head at once, ready to forgive - or think about it much, much later.

“ _Bene_.”

And they breathed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. it's totally because caterina left.
> 
> also, I rewrote this three times just so they won't make out over cicero - the chapter only got longer, but they still did. so i guess this is who i am as a person.


	4. 1501, August

Of course, it was because Caterina left.

The confusion of it was splashed across Ezio’s face, when both of them pulled back, ruffled and breathless, not sure how to step around each other or what to say next. Words were formless, the air too light to sound them, and afternoon’s light fell unevenly on the floor. Niccolò felt the cold of a muttered excuse and one last brush of lips, before Auditore fled back into the summer day through the arched window, leaving him with a sense of a bleeding gut.

 _Ma che altro_ , Machiavelli smirked to himself, and bit his lip, chasing the bitterness out of it. As much as he resented being a side casualty, it was something he could live with – not that a part of him rationalized it as the only sensible outcome. He counted back from _quindici_ , waiting for the thunder in his head to calm down, and willed his thoughts back to the manuscript. The withered parchment was useless without Ezio’s eyes. But it was copied by an Assassin, for an Assassin to read – and that was something to think of, even as any conclusion escaped him as the letters on the page did.

Things did not fall into normal, however, in the following weeks – as he realized that Auditore was avoiding him. Ezio was supposedly racing the novices around the city, dropping by only to leave information on Borgia patrols – but there wasn’t a _more obvious_ way not to look someone in the eye, or to skirt around someone’s days, leaving only the minimal indication of presence where it could not be avoided. The white shadow would respond with disarray in the deep voice and move about him like a wave around the shorestone, leaving Niccolò with the same gutted feeling.

Auditore’s company had made its way into his days like Roman dust – and whatever passed between them was not worth losing it. The tense exchanges, dry smiles, and sharp opinions would bleed into Ezio’s audacious stories over _vinsanto_ and tangle them in hours of conversation, where they would try to make sense of each other with the same stubbornness they commanded it into the city. And Machiavelli could not say that they arrived to an understanding, but to a recognition - a kind of familiarity that settled with knowledge that someone will always watch his back, and that echoed with warmth in his bones.

But now the mornings were too bright and the evenings too dry. The day’s letters exhausted themselves too quickly, and the milkmaids lamented signore Ezio’s absence.

Salvation did not come with the summer storms, but with the twitchy cloth merchant from Milano. Espagnia was on the move. Machiavelli’s chain of spies had failed, but so it seemed the efforts of the Spanish Brotherhood. The treaty between the two warring states was still signed in Cordoba – and now joined Spanish and French forces moved to make their claim at Napoli. The invasion itself was expected, and the mercenaries and the Order ready for the armies’ passage – but not for what came along with it.

There were news of men and women with patterns tattooed on their faces and blades hidden on their wrists. They were seeking out no enemy, offered no greeting, and took no aid, following the Spanish generals like shadows and dissolving in the hustle of military camps. The Roman Brotherhood stirred like a worried anthill, with glances exchanged, arguments wielded over the hideout’s wide table, and multiple depeches sent down south. Their carefully balanced act of meddling in the city-state politics enough to keep Roderigo from safety and Cesare from war was at risk with the new, unknown allies in the frame.

Machiavelli worked, taking on the new challenge as an absolution and a blessing, and Ezio continued to sulk, drowning himself in Roma.

* * *

 

 

“You made a mess over ponto Sant’Angelo the other day.”

The late, ebbing darkness of a summer settled unto the city, and it were only two of them in the Island’s stables. Or rather, it was Machiavelli, watching over his tired horse, and the white shadow which stalked his approach, scaring away the servant boy as it silently separated from the doorframe.

“Maybe.” The shadow admitted, not quite able to chase the satisfaction out of its voice. It was always beyond Niccolò how the white cloak could mix with the red ones of the cardinals, but Ezio was making persistent attempts to sneak into the _città santa_ , coming after the last key to il Bruto’s armor – and ran from half of the Borgia guard when he failed.

And what should have come next – a shake of a head, a smile -  stumbled over the silence in which they looked at each other, and breathed in to speak at the same time.

“ _Che_ -“

 “You’re under a lot of fire, Niccolò.” The shadow said softly, with only traces of usual weariness seeping into its voice.

 “I know.” Machiavelli admitted, reluctant to think of what might make Ezio show up. “What do you want?”

The question made Auditore pause. “Answers, mostly. The decision about the treaty was yours. La Volpe talks as if it is the consequence of your actions.”

“Mine, or Louis XII’s?” Machiavelli shook his head. “The campaign is a disaster, and the King now has to share a victory he does not yet possess.”

“I don’t care about their travel skirmishes – “A frown of a realization cut through Ezio’s face. “You’re planning something.”

“Signoria business.” He shrugged.

“Stop jesting with me.”

“ _Veramente_?” Machiavelli snorted, suddenly stung with bitterness. “All I have is a good informant, who tells me about the _Assassini_ in Pisa, because she doesn’t know I am one.”

That rose Ezio’s brow. Pisa was a smaller state, long past the days of its power and glory, that nevertheless was successfully defending its independence from Firenze for nearly a decade now – much to annoyance of the citizens of the ladder. “ _Assassini_?”

“Who are not us. I had to check that,” was a nod.  Firenze, in turn, stubbornly clung to its treaty with the French King, who granted the city his protection, but preferred Pisa free and the Republic fragile.

“What is the Spanish purpose in Pisa?”

“The hell I know.” Niccolò sighed in exasperation, drawing a shadow of expression from under the hood. “I kept an eye on it only because the Committee of War is nervous - it is a matter of time before Cesare returns to Toscana, and we are not ready.”

“Firenze.” Ezio looked right at him, cutting to the core of his hesitation, and laying out that one word.

“Cannot take an even weaker Francia.” Machiavelli nodded.

“It is not the stake.”

“Listen to me.” Niccolò began, quietly and forcefully, trying to catch the other’s eye. “There is a dye maker in the city. His profit nearly entirely depends on Florentine import – so he cooperates. We can go into Pisa, without stirring the French, or Roma-“

Of course, Ezio didn’t listen –  It was easier to reason with a loaded _arquebus_ than with Auditore when he made up his mind.

And Machiavelli felt anger. At the line of guilt on Ezio’s shoulders, at Ezio – for not being able to see the pains of others past his own, at himself – for allowing that to be, and at the silence that lay cold between them. And the frustration of the previous weeks moved through him like water, when he tugged unto the leather of Auditore’s chestplate, willing the other man’s attention, hand now cruelly on his jaw, and forcing their mouths together. He did not care not to make it any worse, or think of what exactly he wanted this to be, when he bit down on the other’s lip, not bothering with permission.

And Ezio recognized violence. He had learned it like the psalms – and now responded to its summon as a true believer. He lost only a fraction of second to surprise, and then went loose like a crossbow’s string. There was no breath spared between them, as there was no reason - only the satisfaction of strength no longer sheltered, sloppy mouths, and clashing teeth.

Their hands were on each other, forcing the other body to breakdown and fall in line, and getting lost in the sheer force of the response. Ezio was stronger. Machiavelli felt wood under his shoulder blades, and the back of his head bashed against the wall, leaving a taste of blood in his mouth - he did not know whose. And he demanded more, melting against the body that held him in place, and pulling on Ezio’s hair for a better angle between them.

And groaned with impatience, unable to find an easy way past the layers of cloth and leather that separated them. Auditore had too much stuff on him. There was no proper gap between the spauldrons and the chestplate, and pulled on Ezio’s belt, hand running past the throwing knifes and poison vails.

And Ezio stopped him, forcing them apart.

Gloved fingers locked painfully around the unprotected wrist, twisting it to the side, and Niccolò hissed, held against the wall under and awkward angle. The pain only made the cathedral bells in his head ring louder, and he stared at Ezio with some wild intent. Something screamed inside him, escaping with every mangled breath – and he wanted it out, witnessed, even if it would break his bones.

Auditore did not look like he had a better hold on the situation – heavy features sharpened, blood burning on his cheeks. Dark eyes were darting over Machiavelli’s face, trying to catch something between their raced breathing.

“Ezio,” was a cracked whisper, half-warning half-assurance in a voice which Niccolò barely recognized as his own – and he could feel the bastard smile, as Auditore leaned back in, smearing the blood of his broken lip all over his mouth, as he kissed him deep and strong.

“Slow down,” Ezio breathed against his cheek, and Niccolò cursed, tongue tripping over Beata Madonna’s wanton virtues. He was silenced by lips pressed to his jaw, and then under it, where the pulse was threatening to tear his skin. Ezio was asked of him, patient in making his point, catching every movement and drawing out every touch. And that alone was so mind-numbingly good that he gave in, allowing Auditore to lock him against the wall, and untangle every sound that left his throat.

There was an unmistakable flavor of a _putana_ working her client in how careful, how _practiced_ Ezio’s lips were, and how precise the hands that pinned down his hips. The handed-down familiarity of it knocked down the last safeguards in Machiavelli’s mind, and, being lead, he followed. When Auditore slid down on his knees, Niccolò thought of it as a completion of observance, every sigh and every movement falling into a place ordained for them. He could not hear his own failing voice, with the wet sounds of Ezio’s mouth filling his ears like wax, and hand his own hand twisting harder into the dark hair.

But did not allow Ezio to disappear afterwards.

Not after how the bastard got up on his feet, wiping the drip of white from his mouth and looking at him mangled against the wall as if he had proved something – slightly dazed and so beautiful.

Niccolò grabbed unto the corner of the hood, leaning in to stay afoot, and pushed him back, into the heap of hay, nearly collapsing over. Ezio did not object, looking up at him with bright eyes, and Machiavelli could swear he would be laughing, if he hadn’t shut Auditore up by kissing every corner of that mouth. He grinned at how the other’s breath caught when he straddled his hips, and at how easily the armor fell off this time, two pairs of hands working out the latches and throwing aside all the death Ezio carried on him, eager to touch and be touched.

Niccolò did not fully understand why he couldn’t pull away, trailing every rasp and moan he drew out of that throat, and storing it as a victory. He could feel Ezio fall apart under him, and was there to collect the pieces, not missing a single one. He cherished the strain of broad muscles under his fingers, and the roll of strong thighs, finally having the man spread under his hands, open and _alive_ , like he wanted for a long, long time.

* * *

 

 

“That dye maker of yours.” Ezio spoke, in a slightly hoarser voice, breaking the full silence of the deep night, into which they have both settled, resigning to the mess they have made and too tired to think about it.

“..What about him?” At that moment, he hated speech, and Jupiter, who bestowed the gift of reason upon people. Machiavelli’s mind was empty and hallow, as a vault of a cathedral. He stretched, arching his back.

“I’ll go.” Ezio suggested, much more at ease, as the man who had spent a lot of his time around haystacks. “It’s what I meant to say, before-”

He made a noncommittal gesture, and Niccolò chuckled, “ _Scusa_.”

“Or better – meet with the Spanish Assassins myself.”

“I can’t have you out of Roma,” Niccolò responded, looking at the other’s sharp profile in the near darkness. That came out much more… personal that he would have wanted, and he could hear Auditore smile.

“It won’t be more than two weeks.”

It was like telling the _Apennini_ that they can stand there – trying to argue with Ezio when he had a plan, or was called upon by the mixture of audacity and chance that drove him forward. So, Machiavelli leaned in to kiss him instead, just to see if it still felt the same. And it did.

“Do you even speak Spanish?”

“It didn’t get too much in the way last time.”

And he sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my two favourite things about ezio are how he a. was twice officially inducted into honorary courtesans, and b. generally doesn't get things, which doesn't get better with age.
> 
> if italian politics sound like a clusterfuck - they are; you could easily go to war against and continue borrowing money from the same people.


End file.
